


I'll Be Good to You

by Dormchi



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Barebacking, Breathplay, Choking, Inappropriate use of the red string, Light BDSM, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Overwatch - Freeform, Past Near Death Experience, Post-Fall of Overwatch, Red String of Fate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:02:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24798880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dormchi/pseuds/Dormchi
Summary: “Say it. Do not make me ask again.”McCree blows out a breath and feels himself sink slowly into the headspace where it’s okay to ask, just from the molten heat in Hanzo’s eyes and the tone of command in his voice.“Choke me,” he says, his heart hammering in his chest with anticipation. “With the string, while I fuck you.”After recovering from a brush with death that was far too close for comfort, McCree asks for the things he needs, and Hanzo gives them to him.
Relationships: Jesse McCree/Hanzo Shimada
Comments: 1
Kudos: 82





	I'll Be Good to You

**Author's Note:**

> This was my submission for the [Resonance McHanzo Fanzine](https://twitter.com/mchanzine). It was a great project and I had a lot of fun! My artist was the amazing [CaptainNeedsNoSleep](https://twitter.com/SleeplessCap), who is my good friend and an OUTSTANDING artist who really brought the whole mood of this fic to life. 
> 
> Please, go look at the tweet with her wonderful art for this fic: [here](https://twitter.com/SleeplessCap/status/1273796710469435393?s=20). *Contains spoilers for the inappropriate use of the red string but if you haven't figured it out at this point then idk*

“You’re very fortunate, you know.”

“How’s that, doc?” McCree asks. He doesn’t feel fortunate. In fact, he feels downright unfortunate. Nearly dying will do that to a man.

Angela smiles at him tiredly and sets her datapad aside, then folds her arms over her chest. “You’re the only man I know who has come back from the dead twice.”

He wants to argue with her that he didn’t come back from the dead. Just because his heart stopped for a minute and 56 seconds doesn’t mean he officially died. And the first time he “died” years and years ago in Blackwatch wasn’t dying, either. There had just been evidence of his consciousness leaving his body for a little while. That wasn't the same thing as dying.

“I don’t know if I should be proud of that or not,” McCree says instead of all the other things that come to mind.

“I don’t know. Should you?”

“Probably not. M’just happy to be awake.”

_The first thing McCree did after waking up was search the immediate vicinity for Hanzo. He found his soulmate resting in a chair by his bed, and the sheer relief that washed over him made his eyes sting. Their string lay connected between them, a shock of red, a tangible thing that made McCree’s insides twist up._

_And then Hanzo’s gorgeous eyes had opened and fixated on McCree._

_“Jesse.”_

_The second thing McCree did was cling to Hanzo and breathe in the scent of him, tangling the red string around them both as McCree’s body shook with his quiet sobs._

“Promise me you won’t do anything to injure your neck after regrowing all that tissue.”

“I ain’t got the slightest idea what you’re talkin’ about, Angie.”

Angela tilts her head and gives him an unimpressed look. “Do I need to spell it out for you?”

No, she really doesn’t. She saw the bruises on his throat, once. It was a complete accident, a morning where McCree hadn’t slept very well, and he’d answered the door to their room without thinking first. Hanzo must not have slept well either, because he hadn’t woken up at all when McCree had pulled free of his hold.

The look she gave him was not unlike a disappointed sibling, and it had taken some awkward explaining over coffee that morning to make Angela understand. Jesse was sure that she had accepted his explanation, but he was equally sure that she wasn’t happy about it. Hanzo had never been her favorite member of Overwatch, so clueing her into this extra thing between them only managed to worry her.

“Promise me, Jesse.”

“I won’t do any permanent damage to my neck,” Jesse concedes, skirting around the promise she was looking for and hoping she won’t call him on it. “Happy?”

“I suppose.” Angela still looks skeptical, but she waves him off regardless. “You’ve healed sufficiently, and if there were side effects, we’d have likely seen them already. You’re free to go.”

Jesse hops off the exam table and buttons up his flannel, eager to get out of there and find Hanzo. He stops to give Angela a brief hug and a kiss on the cheek, which she returns. She might be disappointed in him, but they’ve always been friends. Jesse doesn’t expect that much could ever change that.

When he enters the kitchen, he finds Genji standing at the stove, stirring something in a pot and chatting casually with Hanzo in Japanese. Jesse thinks it’s casual, anyway, only because nobody is shouting. He’s picked up enough of the language in the seven years he’s been with Hanzo, but not enough to know what the subject of the conversation is.

They both look up at McCree as he walks in, and he doesn’t miss the way the corner of Hanzo’s mouth quirks up into a small smile. Genji grins at him outright and waves. “Look who decided to show up. How did your checkup go, cowboy?”

“I’m healthy as a horse,” McCree replies as he takes a seat next to Hanzo at the table. He lays his real hand over Hanzo’s out of habit and squeezes it before pulling it back. He doesn’t need to see the red string to know it’s connected to Hanzo’s—he feels that familiar and comfortable sensation wash over him, as it always does when his string finds its partner. “Angela gave me the all-clear.”

“Truly?”

McCree winces a little and glances sidelong at his soulmate. “Well, yeah. Just warned me not to re-injure myself.”

“Mm,” Hanzo hums, picking up the steaming cup in front of him and sipping at it. He’s still not very talkative when other people are around, even after all these years. McCree figures that’s fine because he does enough talking for both of them.

Right now, though? Right now, he doesn’t feel much like talking. What he wants is to drag Hanzo out of the kitchen, find a dark corner somewhere, and hug him so tight that he doesn’t know where each of their bodies begins and ends. He’s itching for comfort and connection and things he still doesn’t know quite how to ask for. Things that he knows Hanzo will give him if McCree could just say the damn words.

“Save the leftovers for us, Genji,” Hanzo says suddenly, taking McCree’s hand and tugging at it as he stands from the table. McCree stares at him in surprise and doesn’t move. “Come.”

After a long moment and another impatient pull from Hanzo, McCree gets up from the table and follows him. Hanzo leads them through the halls of Watchpoint, past the rec room where Hana and Lucio are streaming movies, and down the corridor, to the door of the room they’ve shared for years.

Once they’re inside, Hanzo shuts the door and backs McCree up against it. He slips his thick arms around McCree’s waist, and McCree winds his arms around Hanzo’s upper back, gripping at his soulmate’s shirt. He blows out a breath and pushes his nose into Hanzo’s short hair.

“How’d you know?” His voice comes out quiet and raspy and not quite right. 

“Did you forget that I can feel what you feel when our string is connected?” Hanzo asks quietly, his breath warm against McCree’s neck.

McCree’s arms tighten, and then tighten again until he’s surely hugging Hanzo too hard for it to be comfortable. The sheer relief of holding Hanzo like this washes over him in waves, making his eyes burn. He’s turning into a crybaby these days, he knows. “Nah, I didn’t forget. Just never expect it, is all.”

They stay just like that for an undetermined amount of time. It might be minutes, or hours, for all McCree knows. He focuses on controlling his breathing—inhaling the scent of the man he loves and exhaling the tension that’s twisting his stomach in knots. 

After some time, Hanzo puts his lips against McCree’s ear and whispers, “Let me take care of you, Jesse.”

McCree hardly recognized the thought as it crossed his mind moments before, but Hanzo must have sensed his need. He pulls back just enough to look at Hanzo’s face, seeing the calm, affectionate expression there. His soulmate is incredibly handsome, even more so now, with his short hair that’s peppered liberally with gray and the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes that McCree likes to take partial credit for. And he’s here, alive and well. That’s the most important part.

“Yeah. Okay,” McCree agrees, reaching up to rub his thumb over Hanzo’s jaw. 

Hanzo turns his face into McCree’s hand for a moment, nuzzling at the skin of his palm. His dark eyes flick to McCree’s, holding his gaze like he’s waiting for something. Mccree tries to feel through their connection for what Hanzo is thinking, but he’s clumsy at it. He’s never been good at quieting his mind and his emotions so he can feel Hanzo.

“What do you want?” Hanzo asks, and McCree’s eyes widen a little in understanding. 

“I…” The words sit thick and unmoving in his throat. He knows he can ask Hanzo for this without fear of shame or judgment, but somehow it never gets easier to say it out loud. He also knows that Hanzo isn’t asking because he’s unsure of what McCree wants—he’s asking because he needs to hear McCree say the words.

“Say it. Do not make me ask again.”

McCree blows out a breath and feels himself sink slowly into the headspace where it’s okay to ask, just from the molten heat in Hanzo’s eyes and the tone of command in his voice.

“Choke me,” he says, his heart hammering in his chest with anticipation. “With the string, while I fuck you.”

Hanzo hums thoughtfully, apparently satisfied, and takes McCree’s hand to lead him farther into the room that’s been more theirs than it’s been McCree’s for a long time now. Neither of them has many worldly possessions, but there’s enough there to mark that they share the space. A red and yellow blanket they picked up somewhere in the Southwest on a mission. A bottle of expensive sake that Hanzo is saving for a special occasion. A picture of the two of them exchanging Christmas gifts that Genji framed and snuck into their room at some point.

They undress in between languid kisses, pulling off clothes and leaving them where they fall until they’re both completely naked. McCree is a little heavier now, but he’s never seen a judgmental look from his soulmate. Hanzo is leaner, despite constant attempts from everyone at Watchpoint to make him feel included, which meant trying to feed him at every turn.

Hanzo catches him staring as he retrieves the bottle of lube from the nightstand. McCree just can’t help it—the sight of Hanzo naked and unabashed like this never fails to make his heart leap into his throat.

“Lie down, Jesse,” Hanzo says as he returns, pressing one last lingering kiss to McCree’s mouth. “On your back.”

“Yessir.” McCree does as he’s told, lying in the middle of the bed with his head propped up slightly on a pillow. His cock is painfully hard already, a bead of glistening pre-come betraying his need, but he keeps his hands to himself. Hanzo hasn't given him permission to touch himself yet.

Hanzo crawls onto the bed after him, straddling McCree’s hips. He takes his time opening the bottle of lube and pouring some onto his fingers, apparently unconcerned with the way McCree’s body is quivering and molten beneath him. 

“Stay still,” Hanzo instructs him, then reaches behind himself with lube-slicked fingers.

It’s the worst kind of torture for McCree, staying perfectly still as he watches Hanzo prep himself. His soulmate makes quick work of stretching his hole, leaning over McCree’s body as he works his wet fingers inside his body. When Hanzo is satisfied, he wipes his hand on a shirt that ended up not far away on the bed and tosses it to the floor once he’s finished.

“Lift your head a little,” Hanzo instructs him as he moves closer, taking the red string in both hands and winding it through his fingers. McCree quickly obeys, lifting his head and neck as he watches Hanzo expectantly.

His lips part on a sigh as Hanzo moves to slip the soulmate string over his head and around his neck, crossing it over itself at the front of his throat. A shiver runs through him from head to toe at the reverent way Hanzo looks at him, like McCree is someone special and worthy of love. The thought makes him want to laugh, but before he even has the chance, Hanzo pulls the ends of the string tight, making it just shy of impossible to take a breath.

McCree’s entire world narrows down to his inability to breathe and the gorgeous man causing it. He’s wanted this from the moment he woke up. No, that’s not quite right. He _needed_ it. Needs it more than he can ever say. He’s carried the darkness of almost dying with him for a week now, and this is what he needs to cleanse it.

The world gradually fades into the background, fuzzy and distant, before Hanzo finally gives some slack in the string. McCree gasps for air as soon as he’s able to, blinking up at Hanzo with tears in his eyes. 

Hanzo smiles at him patiently and pulls the string tight. After a few seconds, he asks, “Is that too tight, Jesse?”

McCree would answer if he could. Instead, he just extends his index finger and looks up at Hanzo with burning, watery eyes. It’s their nonverbal green light—a way for McCree to let Hanzo know he’s alright, more than alright, with their soulmate string pulled tight around his throat.

The tangibility of it is comforting, even when it’s cutting off his air supply. 

Hanzo smiles down at him, slow and predatory. He straddles McCree’s hips, completely naked, his hard cock bobbing and leaking sticky pre-come onto McCree’s belly. The sight of him is something to behold—muscles taut and bunched beneath his skin, his hair hanging a little in his face, his plush lips curved into a feral grin.

McCree wonders how he got so lucky until the string tightens again, and then he can only think about how to get air into his lungs.

“Ready?” Hanzo asks as he eases up again.

One finger.

“Show me how many fingers you’ll hold up if you want to stop.”

Two fingers.

“Good boy.” 

Hanzo reaches behind himself and grips McCree’s length, guiding it until it presses against his lubed hole. The head slips inside, and the heat that engulfs him feels like a furnace. McCree writhes and tries to buck upward, but Hanzo sinks fully onto McCree's cock and grabs hold of the string, pulling both ends until it’s tight.

“You will remain still,” Hanzo tells him. It’s an order. McCree obeys it, holding still and trembling with his cock enveloped in the incredible heat of Hanzo’s body.

But God, it feels so damn good as Hanzo starts to ride him. He begins with the slow rocking of his hips, an inch or two of McCree’s dick sliding in and out of him, his tight rim squeezing and clenching. The feeling is incredible, made even better when Hanzo tightens his grip on the red string and pulls. 

The string is always the perfect length and thickness for this. McCree wonders as his vision blurs if some higher power knew it would be used like this. 

“Jesse,” Hanzo pants, lifting his hips higher each time he pulls up until just the head of McCree’s cock rests snugly inside him. He starts to bounce, riding McCree within an inch of his life. The room fills with the sounds of their skin slapping together, Hanzo’s labored breaths and McCree’s stuttered, gasping ones. 

“Hold. Still.” The words are forceful, spoken by a man who, at one point, was used to people obeying his every command without question. McCree’s body quivers and his hands twitch as he tries so hard to be good. He just wants to move, but he won’t. He won’t disappoint Hanzo. Not ever, if he can help it.

The pace of Hanzo’s hips is stuttered and furious now as he takes his pleasure, cock slapping against McCree’s stomach as he rides. McCree wants to reach for him, but he doesn’t. He knows that Hanzo is already close by the way his eyelashes flutter and his hole clenches tight around McCree’s dick inside him.

Hanzo leans down and pulls the string tight as he comes in thick spurts, panting against McCree’s collarbone as he rides the waves of his orgasm.

McCree can’t breathe, the edges of his vision darkening as Hanzo’s hole convulses tight and hot around him. A few more rocking thrusts is all it takes before he’s coming hard, his mind filled with the best kind of white noise as he spills inside Hanzo’s body.

“Every breath you take until your last,” Hanzo whispers hotly against McCree’s cheek, his voice just on the edge of a growl, “is _mine_.”

Sometime later, possibly seconds or minutes or longer, McCree drifts back into himself. He feels light and airy and untouchable. Perfectly euphoric. The bleak reality of their failed mission and his near-death experience no longer exist, replaced instead with static and peace.

“Float for a little while, Jesse.”

McCree whimpers and folds himself into the warm body beside him. He feels hands on his skin, but he can’t pinpoint exactly where they are. All he knows is that they feel perfect. Everything feels perfect.

Eventually, Hanzo gently draws McCree out of his fuzzy headspace and back into their room at Watchpoint with gentle kisses and whispered words. Gradually, he blinks away the haze and focuses on Hanzo’s beautiful face. 

“Hi, gorgeous,” McCree rasps, his voice incredibly hoarse.

“Shhh. Do not talk yet.” Hanzo rolls away slightly to grab something from the bedside table and returns with a glass of water. McCree has no idea when he even left to get it. Maybe Hanzo got it before they started. He really can’t remember.

McCree takes the glass and sips at the water. He can’t feel the damage to his throat fully yet, but he knows it’ll be apparent soon. The soreness, the bruising, the ache. All of the things he needs to feel, the things that Hanzo gives to him without making him feel weak.

Hanzo’s hands haven’t stopped running over his skin. The feeling of them is pure bliss.

It’s then that McCree notices Hanzo also got dressed at some point. They’re his clothes—a soft, well-worn black t-shirt with the Blackwatch logo on it that he’s not supposed to have anymore and a pair of grey sweatpants that are just slightly too big on Hanzo’s hips. The relief that washes over him at seeing his soulmate lounging in McCree’s clothes is almost overwhelming. Neither one of them died. They’re both still here, together.

“You look real good in those,” McCree says hoarsely. Hanzo gives him a stern look but doesn’t tell him not to talk again, even though it looks like he wants to.

“I need to do laundry,” Hanzo replies, running his calloused fingertips over McCree’s cheek. “I do not want to get you into trouble wearing a shirt from an organization that was never officially supposed to exist, but it was the only clean one we had.”

“I believe that. We’ve been on missions non-stop. No time to wash anythin’.”

They’ve been running themselves ragged on back-to-back missions for weeks—not just Hanzo and McCree, but the entire team. The lack of rest and personal time is starting to wear on everyone. And on top of that, McCree had to go and almost die.

“What if we took some time off?” McCree asks, looking up at Hanzo in the dim light of their room.

Hanzo smiles and tilts his head. “Is that allowed?”

“What do you mean?”

“Is that allowed in the vigilante organization handbook? I’m unfamiliar with the rules.”

McCree laughs before he realizes what a mistake that is. His throat constricts, and he starts to cough. Hanzo soothes his hands over McCree’s back, holding him through it. “You know better,” he chastises, but he looks sincerely upset that McCree is hurting.

McCree offers him a small smile once he gets his coughing under control. “Stop worryin’ so much. I’m good. Promise.”

Hanzo looks like he doesn’t believe that, but he doesn’t mention it. Instead, he leans down and presses his lips to McCree’s. It’s a chaste kiss, just the soft press of their mouths together. When he pulls back, he smiles. “Where should we go on our… vacation?”

“Somewhere tropical. I’d kill to see you in a speedo.”

Hanzo throws his head back and gives one of those genuine, rare laughs that McCree treasures. When he calms down, his dark eyes shine with mirth. McCree’s heart feels like there’s a fist squeezed tightly around it. “Tropical is fine,” Hanzo agrees, grinning. “But I will not be wearing a speedo.”

“Fine, fine. You drive a hard bargain.”

They stay like that for a while, McCree with his body pressed to every bit of Hanzo he can reach while Hanzo caresses McCree’s skin in slow, soothing motions. Hanzo’s fingertips barely graze over the fresh bruises on McCree’s throat in silent question, and McCree smiles. “I want to keep them, but Angela will be pissed. She’ll give me shit for it if my newly-healed neck is all bruised to hell.”

Hanzo makes a considering noise and turns over to search in the bedside drawer again. He returns to McCree with a biotic pack, cracking it open and laying it in the space between them, the soft yellow-orange glow illuminating their faces. The feeling of it washes over him, more of a slightly unpleasant tingling this time around, compared to the itchy, crawly sensation of it knitting his skin back together after he’d nearly died.

McCree’s tongue darts out to wet his lips, his eyes finding Hanzo’s. There are words that he knows he needs to say, but getting them out takes him a few long moments. “Thank you. For this.” He gestures to his neck and the red string connecting them.

“I will always give you what you need, Jesse.”

“I know.”

It’s not any grand declaration of undying love, but McCree thinks it’s more than enough for the moment.

**Author's Note:**

> Did you head over to Twitter to see Cap's art yet? [Here here here here here go here](https://twitter.com/SleeplessCap/status/1273796710469435393?s=20)


End file.
